“Your money or your life?” the man before him sensibly asked while holding a gun and looking stoned. And Leon took a moment to contemplate his response. See, he had $5000 dollars on him that he had been taking to the bank to deposit. It was all the money he had in the world, and he didn’t know if he could face the life he would have to live if he handed it over. It seemed to him like the classic “six of one, half a dozen of another” scenario he had seen often on his favorite television programs.
“Can I just give you some of my money?” he asked, serious as a heart attack. “‘Cause I got bills and alimony, and I owe this bookie.” The man looked at him like Leon had just grown two extra heads, and he smirked. It was all so amusing to the man who was wearing patent leather shoes, Leon thought angrily. For a moment he didn’t even see the gun, he was so livid. Then he focused on the danger he was in once more and shivered.
“Your money or your life,” the thug with the nice footwear repeated, this time as a statement instead of a question. He paused for a second, smirked again, and said, “And, yeah, not just some of the money.” Perhaps he was smarter than he looked or sounded, but it was hard to take him seriously, gun or not, when he actually answered the question that Leon had posed. “And I need it now, so get it out,” the mugger finished, brandishing his gun as if reading Leon’s mind.
So he considered again whether the money was worth dying over. Who would miss him when he was gone? He was a divorced man, by his own admission afraid of commitment, which his ex-wife found out shortly after they got married. They had no children, and he thanked his lucky stars again that that was the case, because he couldn’t imagine a child relying on him. In fact, the $5000 dollars on him at that moment had come from his mother who cleaned out her retirement account to help him pay back his bookie. The consequence for it was that she said she never wanted to speak to him again. No, Leon had no reason to keep living.
But, and this was a big but, he couldn’t just say, “My life then,” because then the thug would get his money anyway after he was dead. He wondered again, not for the first time, where everyone was who lived in the solidly middle class neighborhood he found himself in. It was four o’clock of a Thursday afternoon and not a soul was out on the streets save him and the shoe fetishist. He cursed under his breath, knowing that his time was almost up and he would have to reply or risk being shot and losing his money in the process anyway.
Leon looked his captor in the eyes and saw a flicker there, something so familiar he started at the realization. There was fear in the other man’s eyes, a fear that was born of necessity and of hard living. That same fear was the one that could force someone to pull a trigger, even if they didn’t want to. In that small moment, seemingly inconsequential, the two men connected in a way that couldn’t have happened without the possibility of the ultimate price that hung over the scene. The other man cocked the hammer of the pistol and raised it chest-high, the barrel pointed directly at Leon’s head, but it shook slightly in his grip. Sweat began to slide down from his hairline and trickle down his face. It almost looked like tears.
“Your money or your life?” he said one last time, the question back in his voice that betrayed his gun hand. And Leon opened his mouth to answer.
Sam
Sam's Online Journal 